


A Cold Mirror

by Dolorosa



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper
Genre: Gen, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 13:17:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12912723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dolorosa/pseuds/Dolorosa
Summary: 'I will always be up here, above you, and you will always be down there in the earth, mourning lost causes.'Throughout the long years of the ceaseless struggle between Light and Dark, the Lady and the Black Rider's paths cross frequently. Usually, their encounters occur at turning points, spaces between — at times when choices are made.Please see the endnote for details of applicable warnings.





	A Cold Mirror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astrokath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrokath/gifts).



They met on a battlefield. To eyes unfamiliar with who and what she was she may have seemed indistinguishable from the other women who slowly made their way across the plain, their heads bent with grief, their cloaks drawn tight against the rain and cold, except that unlike them she did not pause in horrified recognition beside any of the fallen. Nor did she cry. Her eyes were sorrowful, but they remained dry.

He sat tall in the saddle as his horse moved in a great arc across the edge of the plain. The ground was muddy from the rain, and churned up by the feet of thousands of warriors and the hooves of several hundred horses, but this rider's horse left no impression in the earth, and its movements made no sound, and did not even seem to disturb the air. From the great height of the horse he surveyed the scene, taking in the sweeping curve of the plain, the bowed heads of the women as they crisscrossed the battleground in their grief, the bodies of the fallen. And, finally, his eyes came to rest on the one figure who stood tall and clear-eyed, and at a slight remove from the other women. As he urged his horse towards her it became clear that she had already noticed him. She stood very still as he drew up beside her.

He was the first to speak.

'I suppose I should not be surprised to find you here, down among the dead of Mag Rath. The Light has forever attached itself to lost causes.'

She pushed the hood of her cloak from her head, and paused before replying to allow the rain to fall upon her hair and face.

'Is that what you think this is?' she said. 'You think this is a lost cause?'

'It would shock you,' he replied, 'if I told you how _easy_ this was. One word in the ear of a proud man outside the entrance to a feasting hall was enough to sow doubt, and a few carefully chosen whispers in the ears of the right people were enough to create chaos. And the beauty of it is that no one will be able to figure out the cause. Oh, they'll say — the poets and musicians and scholars, when they retell this story — they'll say that it was a fit of ingratitude and madness that caused Congal Cáech to take offense at a feast and allow things to escalate to the point of battle, and they'll no doubt try to justify his defeat as the natural consequence of his impiety in challenging his overlord and ally, but in truth it defies all explanation. They all — Congal and his followers, but Domnall mac Áedo, too — carried the seeds of their own destruction. Ambition, pride, hierarchy, and perceived slights to honour are such fragile things. All I had to do was give them one small push, and here we are. Chaos, and then hopelessness, for you.'

She looked at him steadily, and gestured towards the women as they moved amid the carnage.

'Do you know,' she said, softly, 'that those women are mourning the dead from both sides of this battle: those who fought for Domnall, and those who supported Congal? Do you know that many of them work beside each other day by day, in neighbouring farms, or in the halls and workshops of the kings and war leaders who faced each other across Mag Rath? Do you know that many of the women here today are sisters, mothers and daughters, cousins and friends, and that their relatives, husbands, brothers were in many cases fighting against each other, on opposite sides of this battle that you say you whipped up with a few well-chosen whispers? And do you know that in spite of all that they came to this plain arm in arm, to face the aftermath of the fighting together, to mourn their dead together, and to carry the weight of their grief together, regardless of whether those they loved fought for Congal or for Domnall?'

He had no answer, but his lips curved in a cold smile as he urged his horse away. Within moments he had disappeared from the battlefield.

'How could anyone call this a lost cause?' the Lady asked the empty air.

*

They met at night on a headland, high above the bay below. The sky was clear and full of stars, and the air was still. The waning moon illuminated the grey stones of the bay, and its light flickered across the inky water. His horse shuffled impatiently in the salt-washed grass of the headland as the Rider cast his eyes down to the bay. So intent was his focus that he did not notice that he was no longer alone until the Lady was level with his horse's shoulder. The flames of her torch leapt and danced, and the Rider couldn't help but flinch before the light. He drew his horse away slightly, noting that the Lady, too, was staring intently down at the bay.

They watched in silence together as a man — a mortal man, though of course this mattered only to those of the Light and the Dark — emerged from one of the cavernous caves beneath the headland. There was a tension and a furtiveness to his movements as he cast his eyes left and right, as though he feared pursuit. He did not look up, and so he missed the figures watching from above. Then, in a sudden wild dash he disappeared behind a large rock, and emerged, dragging a small boat behind him. With some effort, he manoeuvred the boat towards the shoreline.

The Lady held herself very still. These next few moments would be like the hinge of a door, and the actions of the man in the bay would determine whether that particular door remained open, or closed forever.

The sea was calm as the man threw a small pack into the boat and pushed it towards the gently lapping waves. But just before the water made contact the man paused, and, turning, left the boat where it stood as he jogged back in the direction of the caves. For several moments he passed out of sight of the Lady and the Rider on the headland, and they stood, watchful, their expressions unreadable in the light of the Lady's burning brand.

When the man reemerged from the cave, he was carrying something in his hand. The Rider let out a little shout of triumph, and watched with greedy eyes as the man returned swiftly to the boat, placing his new acquisition gently next to his pack before launching the boat into the water. The waves lapped against his legs, but he seemed oblivious as he pushed the small vessel forward, striding through the dark water until satisfied with the boat's position, at which point he climbed inside it, picked up a pair of oars, and rowed out into the open ocean. A cloud blew across the moon, hiding the boat from sight, and when the light returned, both boat and man had vanished.

The Rider's horse stamped and snorted, its breath visible in the air. Satisfied with how events had unfolded below in the bay, the Rider wheeled away, calling out contemptuously to the Lady as he left the headland, 'I do not know what you thought your presence could achieve here tonight!'

'I came to watch a man make a choice, just like you,' she replied.

The Lady planted the burning brand in the ground, extinguishing its flame in a single, fluid movement. She lingered there on the headland, looking out across the ocean long after the last of the smoke had faded into the cool night air.

*

They met in a crowded parlour during a fashionable London party. They had encountered one another hundreds of times over the centuries, and the Lady had never once been surprised by his presence, but his appearance in this space, at this moment, gave her pause. It was not a house owned by one of the Light — rather an unknowing ally — but enough of them were present that a lord of the Dark crossing the threshold was a highly provocative act. Those of the Light sensed the Rider's presence instantly, and an observant eye would have noticed that they all turned to note his entrance into the room, and that they all drew together, deliberately. All except the Lady. She stood apart and watched the Rider move about the room, trying to determine why he was there.

Certainly the room held its share of influential people. It was remarkably free of politicians, nobility, or other figures who wielded power directly, but rather filled with those whose power was of a subtler kind: those who whispered from the sidelines, from the chairs behind the thrones, the secretaries' offices, the pillows in rooms where truths were spoken that couldn't be uttered in daylight, or the pages of coffee-shop broadsheets. No one in that London parlour had or would ever be credited for the fall of a government, or for a diplomatic alliance, or for a lucrative trade partnership, and yet it was their words, spoken in the right ears, that had caused or would cause these things to happen. While those of the Light were not aware of any major decisions on the horizon, the Lady supposed that the concentration of such shadowed power in one space was irresistible to the Black Rider, drawing him in in spite of the presence of so many of the Light.

It was a late September evening, and the last of the autumnal light had left the room. A fire burned, bright and warm against the grate, and the faces of the guests were illuminated by the glimmer of a hundred candles, set in elaborate chandeliers. The conversation ebbed and flowed, helped along by the rich white wine or sharp, spicy pear brandy that filled every glass. The Lady drifted over to the fire, and, under the pretense of setting down her empty glass, turned to observe the room through the large mirror that hung above the mantelpiece. Sometimes it was easier to see the currents of conversation, the shifting alliances that inevitably formed and were broken at events such as this party, or the unspoken, festering tensions, when proceedings were observed in reflection.

In the mirror, the Rider's movements, which had appeared aimless and without direction, took on an air of intent and purpose. She could see him pause among certain groups of people, dipping his head to speak a few words here, shake a hand or place an ostensibly friendly hand on an arm there, before moving away to a new conversation. He gave the little cluster of the Light a wide berth, affecting to ignore their presence entirely, though he could hardly have failed to have noticed their shock at his actions. And though an ordinary observer would have not known the cause, there was an almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere in the party: there was a brittle edge to previously cheerful conversation, and several guests seemed to be eyeing one another with hostility, or darting anxious little glances at other groups across the room.

It had been the work of a few minutes, and, confident in the effect of his actions, the Rider clearly did not wish to linger. He made his way to the door, pausing only to take a glass of brandy from a passing tray. With a contemptuous glance he made it clear that he had been aware of the Lady's indirect observation, and he raised the glass in her direction before downing its contents. She watched, impassively, as he disappeared through the door.

*

They met at a crossroads, the intersection between a wide, well-travelled walking track, and a nondescript little lane. It was Midwinter, and the trees were bare and whispering in the wind. No animals stirred in the undergrowth, and the air was absent of birdsong. It was as if the two of them were alone in the world.

The Rider was the first to break the silence.

'So, the Light have returned to these parts?' he said. He didn't seem to be expecting an answer, and the Lady did not provide one.

Like all their encounters, they were at a turning point, in a crossing place, a space between. The unceasing battle, the endless interplay of Light and Dark, of chaos or rigid fanaticism on the one hand, and the clarity of hope on the other, was forever destined to return to such liminal spaces, to the points where paths might change, where choices might be made, where questions might be asked and answered. As in all such meetings, the Lady and the Rider were at once eternal and instantly recognisable to one another, and visibly changed by the passage of time, the weight of the years and all that they'd subtly encouraged and won and lost and witnessed.

The Rider's horse stamped impatiently, its hooves, as always, leaving no impression where they fell. He swept his long cloak back across his shoulders with an expansive gesture.

'I will always be up here, above you, and you will always be down there in the earth, mourning lost causes.'

But he made no move to join the Lady in the lane in which she stood, and indeed his pacing horse avoided it as if it were a lake of fire. When she remained silent in the face of his taunts he wheeled away, gathering speed and galloping back down the path, until the dark had swallowed him. As the Lady crossed the path and continued down the lane, the snow began to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: This fic begins on a battlefield in the aftermath of battle. However, there are no descriptions of violence, and the fic doesn't go into any detail about the battle itself beyond stating that the characters are present on the battlefield.
> 
> The battle and characters alluded to in the first section of this fic are drawn from the medieval Irish stories _Cath Muige Rath_ ('The Battle of Mag Rath') and _Fled Dúin na nGéd_ ('The Banquet of Dún na nGéd'), which are fictionalised accounts of historical figures active in the seventh century CE. You can find a summary of the battle and the events leading up to it [on Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Moira). The original Irish texts, and English translation, are hard to access online, but can be found [here](https://archive.org/details/banquetdunnange00dubgoog) at Internet Archive.
> 
> The final section of the fic is strongly implied to take place shortly before canon in a location familiar from _The Dark Is Rising_ , but it, and the second and third encounters between the Lady and the Rider, can obviously be interpreted in whatever way you like.


End file.
